


Games

by catko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Let's Write Sherlock, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catko/pseuds/catko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene has an appointment at 221B, but Sherlock's not back yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games

**Author's Note:**

> This is a response to two prompts from [partitioning](http://partitioning.livejournal.com/) at the [LiveJournal challenge community universe_the](http://universe-the.livejournal.com/). (Join us! It's fun!) " _Two characters are surprise!soul mates. Hijinks ensue_ " and  " _Party games (spin the bottle, seven minutes in heaven, truth or dare, I never, sex dice, whatever). Bonus points if people are drinking_." And also the Let's Write Sherlock prompt: " _After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…_ "

Irene Adler stepped out of the car and tapped on the front window with her gloved hand. Kate nodded--albeit with a look of concern--and drove off. Irene turned to face the door of 221 and, barely seeming to move, still managed a number of minute alterations in her clothing and hair to prepare for the upcoming encounter. Stepping forward, she rang the doorbell, instinctively poising herself at a favorable angle.

Behind the door, she could hear footsteps, clinking, and muttering; her eyebrows lifted as she acknowledged that there would be no favorable angle for this encounter. Sure enough, the door swung open, and there stood Mrs. Hudson, wiping her hands on her apron and peering suspiciously. Which turned into a hard stare, then an unflinching glare, as recognition sparked in her eyes. "You!" -- almost a hiss. Then, apparently determined to appear unrattled, she drew herself up to full height. "Yes? May I help you?"

Irene's lips curled into a smile. "Mrs. Hudson. How lovely to see you. Yes, it is I, back from -- back in London, and with an appointment to see Sherlock."

"I'm afraid they're not in at the moment, dear." Never had a "dear" sounded so acid.

"Perhaps I could wait? He is expecting me." She'd slipped out her phone, and held it forward. "I have his texts here; would you like to see?" She tilted her head ruefully, as though to convey that she knew such proof would not be necessary between friends.

Mrs. Hudson smiled narrowly, and opened the door wider. "Of course, dear; do come in. But I suppose you'd best wait in my flat. Lord knows, it's unsafe up there, unsupervised." Emphasizing that last word slightly to indicate the double-edge of her meaning, she led the way up the short flight to her open doorway, and Irene followed, thinking _Advantage even. This could be fun._

***

When Irene was settled -- if her elegant, assertive posture could be described as such -- with a cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson removed her apron and sat down opposite. "So, my dear, you've been … away, yes? I imagine Sherlock was surprised to hear from you. Of course, he's been … away as well; he---" she paused, perhaps searching for a conversational gambit to address the re-appearance of two people back from the dead.

"Yes, quite, it is a commonality; I suppose I'm hoping that he can suggest ways to reconnect with life in London."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Oh, goodness, I'm sure a capable woman such as yourself will have no trouble finding your feet." Her eyes flickered to Irene's stiletto-heeled boots, then back to her face. "Or any other position, am I right?"

Irene laughed, a genuine laugh. Indeed, she was enjoying this. The old lady had spirit, and in Irene's recent travels she had not had many encounters with people of spirit. Nor in the practice of her profession, so. It was a pleasure to banter with someone who could give as good as she got, and where there was no need to manipulate, beyond getting a place to sit and a cup of tea.

"I've always found it best to stand on one's own two feet," she countered. "Whether for business or pleasure."

"You'll get no argument from me there, dear," Mrs Hudson lifted her teacup in acknowledgement. "Paddle your own canoe, I've always said. Of course, it's wonderful to have friends to help out." She glanced up at the ceiling. "But the worst years of my life were when I gave up my independence for a man; the best have been since I took matters into my own hands. I won't be making that mistake again."

"Nor I," smiled Irene, also lifting her teacup to mark her words. A bark of laughter shot out from her handbag; she reached in for her phone and glanced at the screen. "Ah. It seems that Sherlock is delayed; perhaps I can trouble you for an hour longer? More tea?" Without waiting for a reply, she stood and moved toward the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, "And that should give us just enough time for the story of how you fixed your little mistake. It sounds quite delicious."

“Yes, indeed, dear. But may I suggest—it’s a story that will go better with something a wee bit stronger than tea.”

***

John stared out of the taxicab window as London flashed by. The post-case mood was atypically tense—not that there was anything “typical” about this weird period of time, what with Sherlock home, alive, still himself, but with a slight air of depletion that, mercifully, seemed to be fading with ongoing exposure to life-sort of-as-we-once-knew-it. _It’s an adjustment, it’ll take time_ , he told himself, and maybe it was the case itself, which had ended rather badly: explosion, two of Lestrade’s team in hospital, dead perp, and damage to a row of vehicles and half-a-block of flats.

Still, it wasn’t like Sherlock to be much bothered by the outcome of a case, before or after the—well, what John privately called “the hiatus,” or “that horrible time of pain and suffering.” And there was definitely something amiss with him; he kept shifting in his seat and rubbing the surface of his mobile, alternately looking out the window, staring at the phone, and darting glances at John.

Just as John was about to ask what the hell was going on, the cab slowed to the curb and Sherlock was flinging himself out and up the stairs of 221B. John hastily tossed a few bills to the driver and hurried to follow him, noting that Sherlock had, again uncharacteristically, paused on the doorstep to gather himself, smooth his lapels and adjust his scarf. John could feel the “what the hell” still frozen on his lips as Sherlock opened the front door to peals of laughter from within—emanating from Mrs. Hudson’s half-opened door. Shooting a glance at John – whose lips were still formed in the shape of “wha-?” – he strode to the open doorway and paused, staring. John pulled up behind, and peering around the lanky frame, saw a sight that compelled his mouth to complete the soundless phrase “-the hell?”

There sat Mrs. Hudson and IRENE ADLER—what!--simultaneously raising shot glasses toward each other and bending forward, laughing. Mrs. Hudson was saying, “-have I ever…let’s see…given a blow job on a moving train.” Irene whooped even louder. “You liar! I don’t believe for a moment that you never have-“

“Drink or don’t drink, dear, them’s the rules,” Mrs. Hudson retorted. “Oh, very well.” Irene stood, raised her glass higher, and proclaimed, “I cannot tell a lie, I must indeed drink to this.” As she swung around dramatically to take a swig, she caught sight of Sherlock and John, agape in the doorway, and raised her glass to them, drank the shot, and fell back in her chair, helpless with giggles.


End file.
